


The Dilemma of the Watson Bedroom

by jemariel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, Ignores the existence of TFP, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Parenthood, Parentlock, Pining Sherlock, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 17:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9669668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemariel/pseuds/jemariel
Summary: Sherlock hates the name Rosamund. John wanted to call her Katherine. Sherlock thinks it suits her. Meanwhile, he and John are orbiting ever closer together. Sherlock tries not to wonder how long he will have them here, all three of them together in 221B. (Spoiler alert: it's forever.)A saccharine bit of loosely post-s4 comfort fic.  Herein you will find: Sherlock being adorable with Rosie; John and Sherlock's relationship evolving, finally; Lots of feelings, like, just, everywhere. All over the floor.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: My experience with babies is minimal at best, so if anything doesn't make sense... whoops? xD sorry!
> 
> Find me as [jemariel](http://jemariel.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!

Sherlock hates the name Rosamund. Given his family, he really has no room to talk about strange names, but _Rosamund?_ Really? Rose of the world -- whatever that’s supposed to mean. It’s insipid nonsense and the shorthand ‘Rosie’ is just asinine. Parents should use the whole of the names they give their children, not rely on shortenings and nicknames to ease their way. (One reason among many he had insisted upon being called Sherlock. William had far too many associated nicknames, most of them unpleasant.) All of that had been true prior to learning the name’s provenance. Now, it’s worse. The last thing the child needs is her namesake’s transgressions hanging off her like a lead weight.

Hatred of the name, however, does not translate in the slightest into hatred of the child.

These days Sherlock wakes to her cries more often than not, her high wailing filtering down through the floor of the upstairs bedroom currently occupied by both Watsons. She’s getting much better about sleeping through the night, but she’s still an early riser. Just like her father. Military habits die hard, and are apparently transmittable through genetics. That’s also nonsense, and he knows it, but he has found himself not entirely rational where she is concerned. He adores every bit of John that he can see in the child. There’s quite a lot.

The creak of John’s bedsprings, the shuffle of his footsteps, the cessation of tears, chased away by softly murmured words. John’s voice soothing both his daughter and his flatmate. Sherlock lets himself drift, drinking in the voice even if he can’t hear the words.

He tries not to wonder how long he will have them here. The thought of this flat being empty again, like it was before -- the oppressive quiet, the _loneliness_ \-- makes a sharp ache bloom in his chest. So he doesn’t. He lets himself pretend that he will have them here forever. Short term avoidance delaying long term suffering. That’s the order of the day, apparently.

John’s footsteps move from the bedroom to the stairs. Sherlock tracks the creak of each stair and floorboard between his room and the kitchen, then his putterings around the kitchen. Kettle, water, mugs, turning on the hob, bottle, pan, more water, formula. The rhythmic routine of breakfast. Once upon a time the comfortable domesticity would have had him grinding his teeth and tearing his hair, oh how horribly dull and boring. But after everything they had been through together, Sherlock had learned to appreciate the calm between the storms. They had earned this. Paid for it in blood.

The kettle whistles. That’s his cue. Sherlock stretches, rises from the bed, pulls on something resembling clothing and a dressing gown, and makes his appearance just in time for tea.

~*~

“Morning,” John says to him, his smile bright. “Tea’s on.”

Sherlock nods, smiles back, takes an indulgent moment to count the crow’s feet around his eyes. No nightmares last night: a blessing. He addresses the infant seated on John’s arm. “Alright Watson,” he says, swinging the girl into his embrace and pressing a kiss to her cheek. John is moving quickly through the motions of breakfast, making toast instead of sausages or eggs. “Shift at the clinic today, I see,” he observes.

John nods. “You have anything on today?” He asks this every single morning. Still. Sherlock tries not to take it personally. Probably trying to be courteous or some other such rubbish.

“Of course I do,” he says. “Young lady Watson and I are going to embark on an in-depth discussion of object permanence.” He says this straight into the child’s sweet-smelling curls, swaying her gently from side to side. She pulls her head back, reaches up and grabs his nose in one tight tiny fist, pokes her tongue at him. He knows his answering grin is besotted. He can’t help it.

John is smiling a lopsided grin at him. “You really don’t have to watch her every day I’m not here you know,” he says. “I can always ask Molly, or Mrs Hudson, she’s just downstairs. Or, I dunno, she could go to a daycare --“

“That would be patently ridiculous,” he says. “Daycare would be nothing but an unnecessary expense and exposure to the contagious illnesses and appalling social habits of _other children_ \--” said with a visible shudder. “Molly works the same as you, and Mrs Hudson is not as young as she used to be. I’m more than capable of taking care of an infant.”

John leans back against the counter, chewing on his lip. “It’s just that you -- I dunno, aren’t you bored out of your skull? You haven’t had a case in weeks.”

Four weeks, three days, to be precise, which is when Sherlock had told Greg that until further notice he was not interested in anything less than the absolutely unsolvable -- and then preferably when John was available -- or that which could be solved by text message, of which there had been a few. He’d been ribbed mercilessly about his “paternity leave” and “honeymoon,” but he’d been largely left alone.

“Nonsense,” he says to John. “There’s email cases, and the website. I’ve not been idle.” To avoid further questioning of this kind he plucks the bottle out of John’s hand and moves determinedly into the sitting room.

“I just hope you’re not corrupting my daughter to be some sort of evil genius,” John calls after him.

“There would be no point. If I raised her to be a criminal mastermind I would always be able to recognize her handiwork, and where would be the fun in that? Now, Watson -- time for breakfast.” With a flourish he settles into his chair, the girl resting in the crook of his elbow on the arm and the bottle in his other hand. She takes the nipple eagerly and begins to gulp.

A third of the bottle is gone by the time Sherlock realizes he’s being watched. He risks a glance up to see John, smiling again, looking at Sherlock with soft wonder in his eyes. Sherlock feels his ears warm and he looks down at the child in his arms. He can’t let himself look at John when John is looking at him like that. Even with John’s paltry observational skills, he would be caught out in an instant.

“Most people don’t refer to infants by their surnames, you know.”

“Don’t they?” he says, still staring fixedly at Rosie, who is staring back over her bottle. He feels pinned between two pairs of dark blue eyes.

John doesn’t answer, and so Sherlock says nothing else. If John stands in the door to watch them a little longer than necessary, well. Sherlock tries not to respond to that either.

~*~

Later, after John is gone, after little Watson has been fed, burped, changed, and briefly entertained by a brisk flight through the flat held aloft over Sherlock’s head, she is settled down on her blanket with a collection of toys surrounding her like offerings in a demonic circle. Sherlock sits at the desk with his laptop open, but he’s not paying it much attention. The girl on the floor struggling to hold her own head up has him captivated.

Sherlock’s prior experiences with infants had been limited. People seemed reluctant to let him handle them, much less leave him alone with them, and he hadn’t seen much reason to push. This is different, though. She’s John’s, which in some indefinable way makes her Sherlock’s. Godfather, at least, whatever that could be said to mean when one didn’t believe in deities. And. Well. They’re here, aren’t they? All three of them here, together.

Sherlock watches her reach for a bright red stuffed cartoonish version of a syphilis bacterium that had been a gift from himself. It’s just a bit out of her reach, but he lets her struggle with her own mass, make a brave attempt at crawling, before giving in to her warbling cries and kicking it gently in range. She cackles and pitches forward to plant her mouth squarely on the edge of the plush germ.

The name bubbles up in his heart, and he lowers himself to his own belly on the floor beside her to look her straight in the eye. John is at the clinic, so it wouldn’t hurt anything to say it now. He smiles, rubs a hand up the girl’s back -- she is so small still, the length of his hand spans the breadth of her body -- and says softly, “Katherine.”

John had wanted to call her Katherine.

Large dark blue eyes look at him, puzzled to find him on the floor instead of looming over like a giant. She pulls the microbe toy out of her mouth and offers it to him with a vaguely questioning syllable. He takes it solemnly, sticks the other corner briefly between his own teeth, and hands it back with equal ceremony. She looks delighted.

It suits her, Katherine. A solid name, sensible and good like the man who had a hand in her creation. “Little Katherine Watson,” he sing-songs at her. “My Kate, Katie Katherine, Kathy Watson, little Katherine Watson-Holm--mm.” That. Wasn’t meant to be said aloud. Even alone in the flat, that’s a step too far for his heart to handle.

Rosie -- Rosie Rosie, her name is _Rosie_ \-- rolls determinedly on her back, kicks both feet with gusto and laughs, long and gurgling. Sherlock smiles at her, leans in, and blows a raspberry on her tummy.

~*~

There is a case that night, in fact. John had found it through the blog. John presses Rosie into Mrs Hudson’s willing arms and they are off into the night, chasing adventure and mayhem and righting the wrongs of the city they love.

After, they linger over post-case curry, laughing and flush with triumph. Sherlock feels electric, effervescent; it hasn’t felt this good in years -- not since before. Before the fall, before _everything,_ and it doesn’t take the brain of a deductive genius to recognize why.

John’s eyes are clear and bright with laughter, bluer than blue. Sherlock can feel the desire to kiss him so acutely his lips are tingling with it, wondering why the hell it hasn’t happened yet. He has never craved the sensation of another’s skin before, but now. Now he can think of nothing else. He wants to breathe him in.

He can’t. He won’t. He won’t jeopardize this just for the sake of his own selfish heart. Not now that they have rebuilt their friendship in this new mold that is better than he ever had the right to hope for. This has to be enough. It is enough.

Except when it isn’t.

“So it was all in the earrings, was it?”

“Of course it was. They were designer, expensive. Everything else in her closet could have come from Tesco. She didn’t have a secondary source of income -- no time between school and the library -- so they were a gift. She obviously wasn’t close to any family members, and her boyfriend was no more well-off than she was, and they clearly hadn’t been intimate in several months. Relationship on the rocks, new expensive earrings, ergo, new partner. She was never kidnapped. She ran away with her girlfriend.”

“How do you figure it was a girlfriend? Why not another boyfriend?”

“The designer of those earrings is well-known by the gay and lesbian community, virtually undiscovered outside of it. Wearing something by that particular designer is as obvious as a rainbow flag if you know what to look for.”

Then it happens. John’s hand lays over his wrist where it rests on the table. It stays there, not a casual touch, but a purposeful one. John looks like he’d like to be able to pretend it isn’t there if pressed, but he’s still smiling, still has mirth dancing in his eyes.

With a pounding heart, Sherlock turns his hand over in John’s grasp, closes his long fingers around John’s wrist and palm, just so. Feels an elevated pulse. John’s? His own? Both? Whatever Sherlock had planned to say next flies out the window, and he feels like he can’t get enough air.

“So do, um. Do you have anything by this designer?” John asks, and it is so obvious, so very graceless even John seems to notice and winces at himself. “Christ, that was -- I didn’t mean --“

Sherlock tightens his grip on John’s wrist for a moment. “All my cuffs have buttons,” is all he says, but he can’t stop staring at John, willing him to dig deeper. To ask his question directly, for God’s sake.

John just blinks, and then the laughter is back. The moment breaks and John’s hand retreats. Sherlock leaves his on the table, ever hopeful.

~*~

Things change after that, a bit. There have always been casual touches between them, but now they are... different. Charged. And more frequent. When they sit together on the sofa, John turns toward him with one leg up on the seat and pressed against Sherlock’s and it feels like a firebrand against Sherlock’s thigh. Or when Sherlock is bent over an experiment at the kitchen table, if John passes behind him on his way to the sink or the refrigerator, now there will be a hand skimming over the back of his chair, his shoulder, or one time carding through his hair (at which point Sherlock had completely forgotten what he was doing in favor of creating a shrine in his mind palace to that sensation).

In the wake of this onslaught Sherlock cautiously loosens the reins on his own urge to touch. He has always grabbed John’s arm to direct him or pull him along, but now he lingers longer, lets his fingers slide down his sleeve and curl around the edge of John’s palm before slipping away. It’s not holding hands. But it’s close. He wonders if this touch sends electric shocks up John’s arm the way it does to him. Or when passing John’s daughter back to him, he will stand there with them for a moment, crowding into John’s personal space with the fingers of one hand in Rosie’s clutches and the other hand around the arm that holds her, not quite caressing. Just sharing space with them both. 

John finally stops his meager protests at Sherlock offering to spend the day with her. He seems to accept Sherlock’s more or less permanent place in her life.

“What’s she going to call you?” John asks one morning while giving the infant a bath in the sink. Sherlock looks up from his pollen specimens.

“Hmm?”

“Rosie. What’s she going to call you, d’you think?” He doesn’t look at Sherlock, but the back of his neck has a ruddy flush. Sherlock wonders if it’s from the warm water, or something else.

“I expect she’ll call me Sherlock, once she can pronounce it,” he says carefully.

John glances over his shoulder. Not enough to make eye contact though. “Well, okay, but --” he is cut off when his daughter suddenly discovers that water moves and works herself up to some enthusiastic flailing. John holds her tight to keep her from sliding down the seat and gets a face full of suds for his troubles. Sherlock tries to stifle a grin, mostly fails, and gets up to hand him a towel.

“Thanks,” John says, mopping his face and looking sheepish. Rosie is oblivious, squealing and splashing happily and making a right mess.

Sherlock finds he doesn’t want to move away. So he doesn’t.

~*~

The subject of the Watson bedroom is a sore one.

“For the last time Sherlock, no!”

“You can’t share a room with your daughter indefinitely, John.”

“Yeah, but this is your home!”

“It’s just as much yours.”

“You lived here for nearly two years without me, and before that we were both gone. Until a couple of months ago I’d been gone longer than I lived here in the first place.”

The reminder is painful. _It always felt so empty,_ he does not say. “Well the point is you are back and you need the space more than I do. I’ll only be downstairs. Mrs Hudson will be glad to have someone in the basement flat.”

“Bollocks to that. It’s tiny and moldy and disgusting. Besides, what about your experiments? And just... everything. Most of what’s in this flat is yours, Sherlock. We’re not living up here with you down there.”

Silence. Always silence after that, a hollow, aching silence. “You should have stayed at your old flat.”

“No. God no, Sherlock, I -- you know I couldn’t have.”

“Then you’ll have to move. Find another place to live.”

“No. I --” a long pause, John dithering, swallowing, biting his lips and clenching his fists. “It’s better, living here, with you. Everything is better. And you help so much with Rosie, and what if there’s a case, and --” their eyes meet, hold, and it’s like staring into the sun. “I don’t want to live without you anymore. Somewhere else, I mean.”

And then it’s like the sun is inside Sherlock, rising warm and bright behind his breastbone. “We could both move?” Hesitantly, because admitting that he would do that for John, with John, feels like admitting too much.

“Where to? We’d never afford a place big enough in London. We can only afford this place because of Mrs Hudson.”

“We’ll move out of the city, then. Sussex, perhaps.”

John laughs. “You’d be bored to tears in Sussex. What sort of cases do you think you’d get down there? The case of the wayward beekeeper?”

_I wouldn’t be bored,_ Sherlock thinks. _Not with you._

~*~

“Dada da dadada da... Dadada DA DA!”

“No, little Kate, I’m not your Daddy.”

“Dada! Daaaa dada da da DADA!”

“Your daddy is John, and you know that very well.”

“Pa pa pa pa pa... DADA!”

Sherlock sighs. This is not the first time it’s happened. At first he could convince himself that it was just infant babbling, trying out syllables, but she seems increasingly certain that the syllables she hears every day apply to _him._ He just smiles down at her happily grinning toothless face. It probably shouldn’t make his heart swell the way it does. It’s a bit not good, but he finds it harder and harder to argue against her on this matter.

He would happily lie down and die for this squirming, happy child. Every ounce of love and protectiveness he feels for John has been effortlessly transferred to his daughter.

The thought of missing her -- of her growing up somewhere far away from him -- makes his fingers clench around an enormous intangible loss.

Sherlock has seen countless genetic fathers who couldn’t give two twits about their offspring, and nearly as many adoptive parents, step-parents, or foster parents whose love was unshakable and essential. As much as the knowledge terrifies him, he knows beyond any doubt that he would be one of them, given half a chance.

Unfortunately, it’s not for him -- or for the girl in question -- to decide. John is her father, and if he chooses to leave then there is nothing Sherlock could or would do to stop him.

~*~

“Oh come here you little sweet thing you!” Mrs Holmes is delighted when she and Mr Holmes finally come to meet Rosie. “Oh isn’t she just precious?! You know dear, with only you and Mycroft, I had given up hope of ever getting a grandbaby.” She kisses the girl’s cheek firmly and repeatedly, to a chorus of vaguely uncertain giggles.

“Technically you still don’t have a grandbaby,” he points out.

“Oh, you hush,” she says. “I dare say it’s close enough.”

“Dada!” Little Watson picks that moment to yell, her arms reaching firmly towards Sherlock.

Sherlock freezes, gut clenching. It was only a matter of time before this came out in public, but did it have to be now?

Mummy Holmes looks like a cat with a canary. “You see dear? She seems to agree!”

“DADA!” Rosie screams even more insistently, and keeps on until she is deposited in Sherlock’s arms. She lolls there happily, oblivious to Sherlock’s inner turmoil. He cannot look at John. Cannot bear to see his crestfallen face at hearing his own daughter swearing allegiance to someone else, to a self-proclaimed sociopath no less. He can’t bear to see the start of John’s slow inevitable slide away from him. Sherlock has taken something that didn’t belong to him and now John will take it back.

In spite of himself, the love of this small girl is like an ember in his heart, and he smiles down at her. He risks a quick glance at John. He’s talking with Sherlock’s father, but looking at Sherlock -- and he is glowing. There is a broad grin on his face that Sherlock cannot fathom, cannot place or name. The sight of that grin slips down into him like hot brandy on a winter night, and for a fleeting moment he has hope that he might be able to keep this. This small girl in his arms, the man in the soft jumper across the room, they are his _family,_ in a way he never thought to want, much less expect. 

The feeling that wells up in him is too much all at once, and his vision swims and goes blurry with tears. Try as he may he cannot hide them in Rosie’s downy hair for long, so he mumbles an excuse to his mother, pushes the infant back to her, then flees to his bedroom. As it turns out, it’s much more painful to hope in vain than to have no hope at all.

He’s got his knees pulled up to his chest and his breathing nearly under control when there is a soft knock at the door. “Sherlock?” It’s John, peeking in tentatively. “You okay?”

Sherlock nods and tries to compose himself. John moves into the room, uncertain, and Sherlock can’t help it. He pounces as soon as John is in range, wrapping his arms around John’s middle and pushing his damp face into John’s belly. The jumper he’s wearing tickles Sherlock’s nose -- cashmere, soft and dark. He tries not to ruin it with his tears.

John’s arms come around him, slowly at first, hesitating, then tighter as he deems the embrace to be both welcome and necessary.

“Is this because Rosie called you Daddy?” John asks, quiet and soft. Sherlock nods.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, she did it all on her own and I -- I tried to tell her I’m not her father, you are, but you try telling anything to an infant and --” He pulls back to look up at John and is startled to see a bright smile on his face. “You’re not upset?” Surprise is more effective than a jumper at drying his tears. If anything John looks... pleased. Proud. Unbearably fond.

“Not in the slightest,” he says, rubbing his hands up and down Sherlock’s shoulders. “If it bothers you we can change it when she’s older, but for now, it’s fine. She’ll call you whatever she wants in the end. It doesn’t change anything. And besides, you’re raising her just as much as I am, maybe more, so... yeah. I don’t mind.”

“You are my family,” Sherlock hears himself saying before he even knows the words are there to be said. “Both of you. I. It just. Hit me. Rather suddenly.” He looks to the side, trying not to feel ashamed by the outburst, by the cloying sentiment of it all. He wonders if John is uncomfortable with being hugged so long by another man and tries to let go, but John is apparently having none of it. He holds on tight to Sherlock’s shoulders. In fact, one hand slides up to tangle in the hair at the base of Sherlock’s skull, and he can’t help but sigh and arch into the contact like a cat. Two fresh fat tears well from his eyes to further dampen John’s jumper.

“We love you too, Sherlock,” he says, very softly. Sherlock doesn’t quite know what to do with that, or with how hard his heart thumps in response. He just lets his eyes drift closed, content to stay right here for as long as John will let him.

After a long fuzzy period of time, John takes in a deep breath and gives a pat to Sherlock’s shoulder. “Come on. We’d best get back, or your parents might accuse us of doing something indecent.”

Somehow this time it doesn’t sound much like a joke. “I’ll be out in a minute,” he says. John nods and closes the door with a soft click.

He sits there until the threat of more unseemly emotional displays is well and truly past, letting his thoughts return to normalcy and listening to the chattering of the group in the sitting room. Then he detours through the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face and make himself presentable again. When he returns to the sitting room, his mother tactfully pretends that he never left, and his father just gives him a vaguely supportive smile.

John is holding Rosie, and looks at him with a slight question on his face, a lift of his eyebrows. ‘You okay?’ Sherlock takes a breath, nods, blinks a bit. ‘Better now.’ John smiles. Sherlock is irresistibly drawn close, putting a hand on Rosie’s back, rubbing lightly. John shifts closer and before he can stop it he feels John’s jumper under his other hand. For all his careful recovery, his heart feels ready to crack in two with love for the both of them. And then John looks up at him and Sherlock allows himself the luxury of a long, lingering look. Just a second longer and he would be staring; yes, officially staring now. And John is staring right back, and he hasn’t seen John look so unguarded in years. He wonders what John is reading in his own expression. Sherlock sees, finally, his own love reflected back at him. The urge to bend down and press a kiss to John’s lips is so powerful it aches in Sherlock’s neck. Could he? Should he?

A bright flash from the other side of the room makes him jump, leaves him blinking. “Oh! So sorry my dears, I didn’t know the flash was on. Can never work these ruddy things. You three just looked so perfect I couldn’t resist.” And then there is a round-table showing of a candid photograph of John staring at Sherlock, Sherlock staring at John, and their daughter staring up at the both of them as if they, together, had hung the sun and the moon.

Discreetly , Sherlock asks his mother for a copy of the photo.

~*~

“Let’s go out tonight.”

“Out? For a case?”

“No. Just dinner.”

“Oh. Ok. Anywhere in mind?”

“I already made reservations. You’ll want to wear that navy jacket.”

John’s eyebrows rise. “Oh will I? You sure this isn’t for a case?”

“No, John, I just -- I’d like to take you out for dinner. That’s all.”

“Well then. It’s a -- It’s on then.”

~*~

Dinner is perfect. A good Italian restaurant, comfortable but chic, a candle between them on the table. Sherlock eats, but not too much. John is smiling and the conversation flows between them like water, like sweet wine. Sherlock fights down the butterflies in his stomach and even now he questions the words he’s come here to say. It’s good now, it’s so good between them. Why risk it? Even if it would be good now, and he’s fairly certain of a positive response, what if it isn’t good enough? What if _he_ isn’t good enough, whole enough, for the long term? What if reaching for more sends them tumbling to the pavement, shattered and broken once again? He wishes for one wild moment that he had had some torrid affair or summer fling in his youth so that he might feel less like a babe in the woods tonight. Abstaining from romantic entanglement is all well and good until you find someone who really matters.

“Sherlock?”

John is looking at him over their wine and desserts. Sherlock must have gone quiet. Stupid. He gives a little hum and a faux-innocent look.

John clearly doesn’t buy it. He reaches between the candles and the flowers and their glasses of wine to where Sherlock’s hands are clasped on the table in front of him. Sherlock curses the sweat on his palms. “Sherlock, is -- is this a, um. A date?”

“Isn’t a date where two people who like each other go out and have fun?” Dry throat, racing pulse, quaver in his voice, so obvious, shit shit shit shit shit --

John laughs a little. “Yeah. Yeah it is.”

“Are you having fun?”

John’s smile turns softer but it doesn’t fade in the slightest. He nods. “I am, yeah.”

Quiet falls between them, and Sherlock cannot force himself to break eye contact. He looks radiant in the candlelight, all painted in gold and cobalt. He turns his hands up and takes John’s hand in both of his. “John, um --” he tries to swallow. “I wanted to say thank you. For coming back, for letting me -- for being here with me, now.”

John gives a breathy huff that might be a laugh and does not move his hand. “I think I’m the one who should be thanking you.”

“You are my family, John. You and -- and Rosie. Having you with me is. More than I could have hoped for.”

John just looks at him, searchingly. Waiting. Licks his lower lip. Sherlock forces himself to barrel onward.

“I -- I think I have a solution to the issue of your bedroom.” John sits back a bit and blinks, but his breathing kicks up a notch and Sherlock thinks he can see his pupils dilate. Could just be the low lighting. “I would very much like to take you to bed,” the words come tumbling out. “Tonight. And. And every night after that. I want -- us. I want.” You, he wants to say, but his throat stoppers up on him and he cannot elaborate any further. He pulls his hands out from under John’s and gulps down the rest of his wine.

Of all the possible responses his mind has feverishly presented to him since he came up with this harebrained idea, laughter, he thought, would have been the cruelest. But no -- yes, John is laughing, but it’s -- it’s good. It’s giggling at a crime scene good, or stealing ashtrays from Buckingham palace good. He looks fascinated and fond and it’s enough to keep the hope flickering in Sherlock’s chest, especially when he catches Sherlock’s hand in his again.

“I -- yes, god yes. I thought you didn’t --” 

Sherlock closes his eyes. “I don’t, usually. But. Obviously you are the exception. You are the exception to everything.” He blinks slowly, thumb skimming over John’s knuckles. “You are exceptional.”

“We’ve gone about this rather the wrong way round, haven’t we? I mean, this is our first date and we already have a daughter together.”

“Oh I don’t know about that.”

“Hmm? Which part?”

“This being our first date.” Sherlock allows himself the luxury of a grin, and John smiles back, remembering.

“Angelo’s?”

“The cab driver case.”

“God. A Study in Pink. It really has been... a long time, hasn’t it?”

Sherlock decides to be brave one last time and brings John’s hand up to his lips to brush a kiss over the knuckles. John exhales as though he’s been punched. “Worth every moment.”

“Sherlock.” His voice is thick all of the sudden. Heavy.

“Hmm?” Sherlock humms against his fingers.

“Let’s go home.”

~*~

The cab ride home is interminable. Surely it had only taken half this long to get to the restaurant in the first place? Sherlock slips a hand across the seat to graze briefly over the back of John’s hand, then skims over to skate along the texture of his jeans over his knee. Warm. Firm muscle. John’s quick intake of breath, his hand moving to press Sherlock’s in more firmly, slip it an inch or two closer to the intimate heat between his legs. Sherlock cannot -- doesn’t want to -- contain a quiet groan.

When they get to 221b, racing up the stairs, there is a note from Mrs Hudson taped to their sitting room door. John pulls it off and reads it out.

“’Put Rosie down 8pm and have stolen her monitor. Don’t worry bout a thing. Have a lovely night. OXO H.’ She is a saint. Did you tell her --?”

Sherlock smirks. “I didn’t have to.”

John chuckles. “She’s been gunning for this for years, I suppose.” He stands there a moment, fiddling with the note in his hand. He looks up at Sherlock, licks his lips. Sherlock sees his gaze linger over lips, neck, the open button at his collar. “Well then. Just us tonight.”

Sherlock’s breath comes quickly and heat floods low in his belly. “Just us.” He crowds close to John to reach for the door knob, opens it, and herds him inside.

Once there John seems suddenly off-balance, uncertain. He pats his pockets, forgets whatever it was he was looking for, glances around at the various seating options, then moves in the direction of the kitchen. “Drink? More wine? Scotch? I think this calls for a scotch.”

Sherlock accepts a tumbler when it is offered to him. They stand in the middle of the room, touch glasses, take a sip.

John laughs a little, reaches out his free hand to finger Sherlock’s lapel. Even that small indirect touch zings through Sherlock’s skin. “So,” he says, then clears his throat. “You... what, finally deduced my bisexuality, did you?” He tries for a teasing tone, but his voice is pitched too low for that. Rough. Intimate.

Sherlock nods. “It was James Sholto that tipped me off.”

John nods, shakes his head. “That’s exactly why I never mentioned him to you. I knew you’d figure it out.”

Sherlock shrugs. “By the time I did, it was too late to do anything about it.”

“Nope,” John licks his lips again. He puts his scotch down on the table by his chair and his other hand comes up to cup the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock reaches blindly to put his scotch down as well and is relieved when he actually manages to get it on the table. “Never too late.” Sherlock’s heart thuds. They are close, so close, he could just reach out and -- and then he’s wrapping John up in his arms and slotting his chin into the space between his ear and shoulder, breathing in the scent of his hair. John’s arms cling round Sherlock’s trim waist and they just… stay. Swaying gently.

“God, you’re trembling,” John says.

“Am I?”

“Yeah, and your heart is going crazy. Are you alright?” John tries to pull back but Sherlock’s arms won’t let him go far.

“Yes, I -- better than alright. I’ve just never -- and it’s _you_ \--” oh god, he hadn’t meant to just blurt it out like that. John’s eyebrows knit together.

“Never? Not even with -- you know. Irene Adler?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, grateful for a distraction that lets some of the tension drop from his shoulders. “For the last time, no. I’m not interested in women, I never have been.”

John looks up at him, calculating. “You really don’t do relationships, do you?”

Sherlock frowns. “Not so far in life, no.”

“And yet you’re saying you want to commit to me and my daughter, all at once, romantically, as my -- as my partner. For -- what, forever?”

No no no, he _must_ understand this, it is _essential._ He leans down to press his forehead against John’s, the tips of their noses just brushing. “I already have John. You are already my partner, in everything. You have been since the day we met. Even if I haven’t always been the best at showing it, sometimes, I.” He swallows. “I love you. And I love your daughter. Our daughter. I want to be with you, in -- in every way.”

“You don’t have to do this, Sherlock. You do know I’m not going anywhere, don’t you? Doesn’t matter if we never do anything more than this, alright?”

Sherlock pulls back just an inch or two to search John’s expression. “Do you want this?” he asks. He doesn’t mean for his voice to be so low and sultry but given John’s hearty exhale it doesn’t go amiss.

“God yeah -- I mean, yes, you are--” deep shuddering inhale “--Gorgeous and incredible and I have wanted you for years, but we don’t --”

Sod this. Too much talking. Sherlock leans forward and plants his lips squarely on John’s.

He hardly knows what he had been expecting. Sparks, perhaps. Some electric feeling. What he gets instead is cool, dry lips under his own, a startled exclamation before John is pulling back. “That’s not --” but Sherlock just pushes forward again, this time cupping John’s jaw in one hand and tilting to one side just so, sliding and searching and angling and --

He can feel the moment when John surrenders, feels the huff of breath on his cheek and John’s arms going tight around him, and _oh. Yes._ There he is. Oh God, he’s kissing John, and John is kissing him back. The enormity of it floods in and he is momentarily staggered. When John’s mouth opens to admit his tongue he hears a soft, helpless moan from his own throat. He feels... relief. It feels like an adventure and coming home all wrapped up in one. 

The first kiss goes on for ages. There are soft moans and deep sighs; they trade the lead back and forth between them. It swings from intense to playful to heated to so soft and affectionate Sherlock wants to cry.

After a long time, John pulls back enough to look in Sherlock’s eyes. Whatever he sees there makes him grin and he says, softly, for Sherlock’s ears only, “Let’s go to bed.”

~*~

Morning comes soft, warm, and easy. Sherlock feels a contented lassitude in his limbs that surpasses anything in his experience. John is a welcome weight against his back. He distinctly remembers lying awake for hours listening to him breathing in the night, but he must have drifted off at some point. He turns over again now to pull John in close. The still-sleeping man just snuffles warmly into Sherlock’s neck and snores a bit, and Sherlock lets himself doze.

That is, until the tell-tale cries of their daughter pierce the stillness. John sits up a bit, instantly awake -- sort of, his eyes are gummy and his movements sluggish, but he is blinking up at the ceiling.

“Christ,” he says. “Has she always been that loud down here? You must have been climbing the walls.”

Sherlock traces the fingertips of one hand down John’s bare arm, still in awe of being allowed to see and touch so much of John all at once. “Not at all. It’s nice, in a way.” He pulls himself up and out of the covers. “I’ll go get her.”

“You sure?”

“Of course. Stay.” Sherlock’s dressing gown is halfway on already, and John shifts back down into the pillows again. 

“Bring her down, will you?” he asks. Sherlock just smiles and is off down the hall and up the stairs.

Little Watson is standing up in her crib when he reaches the room, and her cries soften when she catches sight of Sherlock. He has to fight the temptation to say “Your father and I had a great deal of sex last night and it was thoroughly brilliant.” Probably not good. She’s going to start understanding language sooner rather than later if she doesn’t already. Best not to traumatize her. He pulls her into his arms and kisses her head.

“It’s alright little Kate, my Katherine. I’ve got you. Let’s go downstairs and see your daddy, hmm? That’s it my little Watson, my Katherine. Katherine Watson-Holmes.” The murmurs continue as he makes up her bottle -- one-handed -- and grabs a fresh nappy from the box.

In the bedroom John is lying down, eyes closed but not sleeping. The infant in Sherlock’s arms makes a happy noise at the sight of him and John smiles, still not opening his eyes.

Once they are settled comfortably, Rosie freshly changed and lying between them on the bed with the bottle in her mouth, John playing idly with her toes, John asks, “Why do you call her that?”

Sherlock freezes, his brain going into overdrive. Had Sherlock slipped up and called her Kate while changing her? Or --

“I heard you in the kitchen. It’s fine, I just -- why?”

Sherlock keeps his eyes on their daughter’s face and considers his answer. Ultimately he decides that the simplest, best answer is the truth. “You wanted to call her Katherine,” he says.

“Yeah but we decided on Rosie.”

“No, _she_ decided. On Rosamund.” The name tastes sour in his mouth and he knows it comes out with more force than he should be letting on. John is silent for a long time, obviously hearing all the things that Sherlock isn’t saying. He barrels on anyway. “The name has history. It’s dangerous. She doesn’t deserve that. She’s your daughter and you wanted her to be Katherine, so as far as I’m concerned, that’s who she is. Besides, I think it suits her.”

John nods slowly, leans in to kiss Sherlock’s cheek. After a long silent moment he says, “I never liked Rosamund anyway.”

A tight knot unwinds from Sherlock’s shoulders. “We should change it before she’s old enough to know the difference.” He curses the words the moment they are out of his mouth, but he can’t take them back now. He can only kick himself for them. But John just laughs.

“You daft mad bastard.” There is silence for a long moment as they both look down at the girl between them. “I love you, you know.”

Sherlock isn’t entirely sure if John is speaking to him or to their daughter, but he answers anyway. “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> [jemariel.tumblr.com](http://jemariel.tumblr.com/) :-)


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